


All That's Left To Do Is Run

by Thiswillonlyhurtalittle



Category: Major Crimes (TV), The Closer
Genre: Five Times, Fritz Howard (The Closer), Multi, People who are bad at life, Rusty Beck (Major Crimes), gal pals, missparker made me do it, not quite friends, slightly dented people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 22:04:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4803899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thiswillonlyhurtalittle/pseuds/Thiswillonlyhurtalittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Because the problem with Sharon is that she's always going around, assuming Brenda is every bit as good as she is."</p><p>Five time Brenda does something with Sharon that she never did with Fritz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That's Left To Do Is Run

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missparker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missparker/gifts).



> This here's a belated birthday gift to my girl MissP. I gave her three fic wishes and she worried three was too much. Silly girl doesn't know I would have given her a million and not even blinked.

* * *

 

 _Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone._  
_I'll be waiting; all that's left to do is run._  
_You'll be the prince and I'll be the princess._  
_It's a love story, baby, just say 'yes'._

"Love Story" - Taylor Swift

* * *

 I. 

Brenda can't breathe.

She tries to catch her breath, take the deep pulls of air the rational part of her mind is telling her that she needs.

Except her body won't cooperate. She can't _breathe_. She thinks maybe this time she's going to actually die.

And it isn't the first time in the last month that she's had this feeling at work. Not the first time she's bolted from her office without explanation to her team. But it is the first time she can't even make it out of the building, to the privacy of her car or at least the open, smog-choked Los Angeles air. Can't even make it down half the flights of stairs before she feel like she's suffocating in the dark, windowless space. Halfway sprints through the next exit she sees and then ducks into the restroom directly across from it, slamming a stall door closed behind her.

The bathroom isn't an ideal place for her to be right now; even the handicapped stall feels too confining. And she bends over and tries to catch her breath, wills her lungs to fill. And she can't. _She can't_.  Not when all she can smell now is noxious cleaning chemicals and her mouth sours with the taste of bile and her life is crumbling down around her, the walls of this tiny room pushing steadily in.

"Chief Johnson?" she hears from the other side of the stall door, and Brenda fights tears now, hearing that voice. Sees those black stiletto heels under the partition and knows she can't pull it together enough to face this woman. "Brenda?" the voice asks, softer now.

Brenda doesn't respond. Couldn't even if she wanted to. Is so busy not trying to die that she doesn't react much to Sharon Raydor pushing open the unlocked stall door and sliding in with her.

The space is way too small for two people, was too small just with Brenda. Thank God Sharon doesn't come any closer when Brenda takes a step back.

"Brenda," Sharon says slowly. "You need to slow your breathing. You're starting to hyperventilate."

"Can't," Brenda says. Means it to be bitchy and angry but it just comes out as a rasp.

"You can," Sharon tells her. "Brenda, _you can_." And now Brenda starts to feel lightheaded. Can't decide if she's going to vomit or pass straight out. "Brenda, I need you to close your eyes and breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Close your eyes and listen to my voice, okay?"

Brenda closes her eyes, if only because the darkness of her own eyelids is preferable to watching Sharon stare at her while she rattles herself apart.

"In your through your nose and out your through mouth," Sharon tells her again, and after a moment Brenda feels the pressure of something resting against her stomach, right against the hem of her skirt.

Brenda's eyes shoot open wide.

"Try to move my hand with your breathing," Sharon tells her, standing close. Keeps her hand flat against Brenda's belly, not exerting any pressure. "Pull the air all the way down until your stomach moves my hand."

Brenda isn't someone disposed to taking orders, but Sharon's voice is barely above a whisper. Lacks it's usual edge. So Brenda does what's she told. And the deeper she breathes, the more she can smell Sharon's perfume. Maybe her lotion. Something that smells like ginger.

"More," Sharon tells her, and Brenda complies. Feels strangely willing to hand over all the control to someone else now.  "Just think about this room and only this room, hm? Keeping moving my hand with your breath."

"Okay," Brenda says after a while. Wraps her fingers around Sharon's wrist and pulls Sharon's hand away from her belly. "Okay now," Brenda says, more forcefully. Tries to make it ring true.

Except Sharon doesn't leave the stall and neither does Brenda yet. Not even when she feels Sharon staring at her anew.

Brenda feels the panic swelling again and takes another deep breath.

"Are you getting these attacks often?" Sharon asks. Sounds genuinely concerned too, though Brenda's head is clear enough now to be thinking about strategy - worried about minimizing damage.

"Not often," Brenda says, which isn't the truth. "They started a month ago." Not a lie. "I've never had 'em before."

"The lawsuit," Sharon nods. Doesn't say anything beyond that.

"How'd - I mean how'd you. . ."

"I saw you run in here. From the stairwell." Sharon hastens to add, "no one else saw you."

"Good," Brenda says, trying to sound formal. Straightens her tucked in blouse where Sharon's hand has creased it. "Good."

"Do you want me to call Agent Howard?" Sharon offers.

"No," Brenda replies quickly. Hates how desperate that answer sounded. She may not loathe this woman the way she used to, but that doesn't mean she wants Sharon getting a gander at all the things she hides from Fritz. "No, thank you," Brenda amends. Gives Sharon what she hopes is a polite smile.

"Alright," Sharon says, sounding more her typical, frosty self now. Follows Brenda out of the stall and then out of the bathroom. Lingers for a second out in the hall, looking at Brenda like she wants to say something. "Have a good day, Chief Johnson," Sharon tells her instead, turning around.

And Brenda sees now how Sharon spotted her; Brenda was panicked enough to take refuge in the floor that houses FID, of all places. Shows just how out of her mind she was, she tells herself, and heads back into the stairwell because she doesn't think she's up to taking the elevator quite yet.

So she climbs the stairs slowly, breathing from her belly as she goes. Finishes her day without another panic attack and then her whole, miserable week. Passes the next two weeks without Sharon so much as hinting at what she saw in that bathroom, for which Brenda is genuinely grateful.

"Ginger?" Fritz asks her, when they're out shopping a few months later and Brenda picks up a new scented candle.

"I like it," Brenda tells him with a shrug. Doesn't even think about why.

. . .

II.

"Oh, good," Brenda says, when they pass the store. "I've been meanin' to come here."

 "Oh," Sharon says. Looks from Brenda to the store. "Oh. . . Well. Happy shopping. . . Thanks again for lunch."

"What?" Brenda squints. Grabs Sharon by the wrist and tugs. "Uh uh. You're comin' with. None of my bras fit me anymore and I'm gonna need a second opinion."

"Brenda," Sharon says, not moving from the same spot she's rooted herself to. "I don't know that-"

"Sharon, you have great taste," Brenda pleads. Tugs at Sharon again. "Though it does pain me to say that to you."

"Ha ha," Sharon snarks. Let's herself be pulled into the lingerie store.

So maybe shopping isn't exactly something they do together as friends. Not really. Not yet. But she and Sharon have lunch together more and more, now that Brenda's been absent from the LAPD long enough to make it less awkward. And they call each other for no reason whatsoever. They even _text_.

This is what girlfriends do together, Brenda harrumphs when Sharon seems wary. This is just what girlfriends do! They have lunch, and they drink wine, and they bitch about men. And sometimes they share the invariably excruciating pain that is shopping for bras.

 "I've been puttin' it off forever and now I can't anymore. It's startin' to show that I've been wearin' the wrong cup size."

"Are you going up a size or down a size?" Sharon asks her, although Brenda imagines she must darn well know the answer.

"Up," Brenda whines, and Sharon scowls at her.

"Woe is you." Drags out the syllables as she gives Brenda a rather spectacular eye roll. "Such a hardship. Tell me, do they award scholarships to people with your disability?"

"Shut up!" Brenda shoots back. "It's not my fault I gain weight there first. Besides," she shrugs, looking at Sharon's cleavage. "I'd trade mine for yours any day."

Sharon squirms and Brenda ignores it. Starts going from display to display, mentally crossing off things that won't work.

"Molded cups are the worst," Brenda shakes her head, when Sharon holds something up. "Though Lord knows I need all the underwire I can get."

"Brenda, I don't think you need me for this," Sharon says, when Brenda's amassed a big pile all on her own.

"Not for this part," Brenda agrees. "But I need you to be honest with me when I try it all on."

"Brenda," Sharon says again. Abruptly stops talking and finds something interesting to look at when Brenda pulls down a black lace negligee.

Sometimes Sharon is so painfully Catholic.

"C'mon," Brenda tells her gleefully. "It's judgment hour."

"Maybe- maybe you're being too picky," Sharon tells her, when they're halfway through the pile. Brenda tossing over bra after bra that doesn't work.

"Did Sharon Raydor just tell me _I'm_ too picky about _clothing_?" Brenda drawls.

"Maybe Fritz would like half of the stuff we've disqualified," Sharon tells her. "It's him you should be asking. Not me."

"What does it matter what he likes if I don't like it?" Brenda volleys back, to which Sharon concedes with silence. "And Fritz refuses to do this kind of shoppin' with me."

"Oh?"

"He gets embarrassed," Brenda chuckles.

"Hm. I can't imagine," Sharon says. Sounds kind of weird.

"Oh, good!" Brenda exclaims. "This one works."

"Which one?" Sharon asks her. Freezes when Brenda clicks open the door, standing in that black lace number.

"It's good, right?" Brenda asks, kind of worried. Does a quick spin and she looks in the mirror, the door still propped open.

But Sharon doesn't say anything. Just stands there, giving Brenda this look like maybe she doesn't like it. 

"You think it's bad?" Brenda asks her, her expression crumpling. Looks back into the mirror with blooming concern. Because yeah, a few things on her body are a little lower than they used to be and others soft where they once were taut, but she really thought this looked good.

"I think every straight man with a pulse will agree that it _isn't_ bad," Sharon tells her sternly. "It is very far from _bad_ , in fact."

Sharon slams the dressing room door shut, making an annoyed noise on the other side. And Brenda tugs the black lace off. Thinks maybe Sharon's worse at having girlfriends than she thought.

. . .

III.

The funeral is big and long, but the wake is quiet and over quickly. And Brenda wonders if there was some kind of signup sheet to organize the cleanup, as at the end of it she's left with a spotless house filled with flowers. A fridge filled with neatly packaged food.

Maybe Sharon, Brenda thinks. Pours herself some coffee. Probably Sharon.

"Your father said to call him if you need anything tonight," Sharon tells her, having apparently slipped back in through the front door.

"I thought you left already," Brenda tells her. "I thought you went home."

Sharon shakes her head slowly. Gives Brenda a confused look. "Unless you want to be alone?" Sharon asks her.

"No," Brenda says immediately. "No. . . Stay." But Brenda doesn't move from where she's been standing in the kitchen. Doesn't go somewhere to sit down or else offer Sharon a seat.

So Sharon comes into the kitchen and kicks off her shoes, putting them right beside Brenda's. Goes into the cupboard and pulls out an old Atlanta PD mug to fill with coffee.

"There's soy milk," Brenda tells her, and Sharon peeks into the fridge. Closes it without pulling anything out.

"I was thinking maybe something stronger than soy milk," Sharon says tiredly. Clearly means it as a joke.

"Well," Brenda sighs. Strolls to the end of the kitchen and pulls open a mostly empty cabinet. "I believe the Johnson boys left you a few options."

Sharon makes a non-committal noise in her throat as Brenda pulls down a small bottle of bourbon and bigger, half empty bottle of scotch. And it's a surreal thing for Brenda to see here, in her own kitchen, because she never brought hard alcohol into her home. Never let someone else bring it in either. Not with Fritz.

It didn't ever feel like  a sacrifice, not when Brenda mostly drinks wine anyway. Not a big deal to have out only wine and beer at the party they had here three months ago, after she and Fritz  closed escrow on this house.

"Bourbon?" Brenda asks Sharon, even though she knows Sharon prefers scotch.

"Will go better with coffee," Sharon concedes. Carefully takes the bottle from Brenda's hands and pours a tiny amount into both of their mugs.

"I keep expectin' him to come home," Brenda says. Sounds calmer than a woman with a dead husband has any right to be. "I keep thinkin' I'll turn around and he'll be at the door, wipin' his feet and complainin' about traffic."

"I know," Sharon says softly. Grabs Brenda's free hand and doesn't let go.

It's been Sharon who's been telling Brenda that she's not a monster, these last three days. Not a cold-hearted shell of a woman for not having shed a single tear since Fritz died.

Just shell-shocked, Sharon keeps saying. Only processing, she's soothed. But Brenda worries that Sharon has to be wrong. Because the problem with Sharon is that she's always going around, assuming Brenda is every bit as good as she is.

So here Brenda is now, standing in her brand new, expensive house and no husband to live in it with her. And all she can think is that it's not right that there's liquor in the cabinets. Not right that Brenda can just let those bottles just sit in the cabinets and that she and Sharon can stand in the kitchen, casually drinking spiked coffee like there's no one here that it might hurt.

"He's gone," Brenda whispers.

Sharon sighs. Holds Brenda's hand even tighter and says, "he is."

"He's gone," Brenda repeats, and now her voice breaks.

She cries so hard Sharon has to hold her up.

. . .

 

 IV.

"Why did you leave the CIA?" Sharon asks her.

They're on the way back from a movie, and traffic is awful. Worse than awful. And Brenda is so glad that Sharon is the one driving but she also feels kind of guilty. Feels bad that she can lounge lazily in the passenger seat, half drifting off, while Sharon's stuck dragging them through nearly standstill traffic.

"What?" Brenda asks. Immediately snaps awake.

"I-" Sharon starts. Stops talking while she rolls her window down. Might as well since it's a beautiful night; warm but not hot, and without the punishing wind from the last few days. "I'm sorry," Sharon says now. "I shouldn't have asked you that."

"It's okay," Brenda tells her. Sits up a little in her seat. "You can ask me that."

"I can?" Sharon repeats softly. Hangs her arm out her window and tilts her head back against her headrest. Gives Brenda a searching look.

"I let a lot of people ask me that question," Brenda smiles, rolling down her own window. "It's just that my answers to them always involved me lyin' to various degrees."

Sharon chuckles at this, slow and easy. Like she's not one bit surprised. Like it's okay.

"I didn't even tell Fritz," Brenda admits.

"Never?" Sharon asks, but in that way that's free of judgment. That open, affectionate tone Brenda never thinks she's earned. Not when it's been two years since Fritz died and sometimes Brenda lies in bed alone, thinking she's full of secrets that have gone stale. Things she kept from Fritz that are still inside her, rotting away.

"He asked me when not long after we first dated dating," Brenda supplies. "I gave him the usual line about changin' goals and opportunities. Stuff about Atlanta bein' an attractive job because it was home."

Sharon doesn't prod her along. Lets her take her time, unsurprisingly. And Brenda turns her face to the open window and the fresh, warm air. Feels grateful the Santa Ana winds have given them this reprieve.

"There was this one assignment," Brenda begins. "In a less than friendly country. . . A person they were particularly keen to crack. And I did my job without a second thought. Did it with dedication and conviction, because we were the good guys and this man was the villain. The advice I gave was _necessary_." She takes a shallow breath. "And then of course we found out that the person we had wasn't who we wanted. Faulty intelligence. This poor man, just scrapin' by and we. . ."

She doesn't finish the thought. Won't give Sharon the details even if she ethically and legally could. Not fair to do so when Sharon already shoulders so many horrible memories of her own.

"You got out," Sharon consoles later. After a few minutes of silence. "How many people choose to stay?"

"Yeah," Brenda drawls darkly. Clicks her tongue. "And I felt real superior about that. So impressed with my own moral compass even though that lesson clearly didn't stick."

And Brenda doesn't look over at Sharon immediately because she doesn't want Sharon to see how haunted she feels. Bitter and dark and twisted in ways that all of Sharon's honesty could never hope to fix. But Sharon is _so_ silent, the traffic in front of them now at a complete halt, and Brenda can't take it anymore. She twists around in her seat.

Sharon kisses her. Brenda sees it coming, has time to pull back. Doesn't consider it for a second. Only thinks about matching the gentle pressure of Sharon's lips.

A car horn blares behind them and Brenda jumps out of her skin. Feels annoyed when Sharon pulls back looking mildly amused. Closes the distance between their car and the car ahead - a whopping ten feet that the asshole behind them apparently thought would make all the difference to his commute.

"You want me to write that driver a ticket?" Sharon asks her. Has the nerve to sound smug.

 _Smug_. 

"Bein' impatient isn't a crime," Brenda grouses, and Sharon smirks.

"I could come up with something," Sharon says wickedly. "Assuming you'd keep my secret."

Brenda doesn't know what to think about this; is baffled as to what secret of hers Sharon's actually wanting her to hold onto.

But heck if Brenda isn't going to dump out all those old ones this very second. Make room immediately for everything Sharon's willing to hand her.

. . .

V.

"I'm scared," Rusty says darkly.

"Scared?" Brenda balks. "It's beautiful!"

"That's what scares me," Rusty replies. "Like, normally you cook something and I can tell by looking at it why it's going to taste bad-"

" _Hey_ -"

"But this is a _beautiful_ cake. A perfect looking cake. And that really fucking worries me, Brenda. Because it means I can't even _begin_ to guess what horror is lurking inside."

"Mean," Brenda pouts. Throws dirty bowls noisily into the sink and mutters about ungrateful stepkids.

But she can't actually get mad at Rusty. Not when she loves that smart-mouthed boy so much. And not when he does make kind of a valid point. . .

Maybe she should have tried the cake batter before she baked and iced it?

"Rusty?" Sharon calls from the foyer. So too late now. "Brenda?"

"We're in here," Rusty shouts.

"Hi, honey," Sharon smiles. Kisses Rusty on the cheek. "And hello to you, too." Leans in to kiss Brenda's lips and then stops dead.

"Hi," Brenda smiles.  Bridges the gap between them and kisses Sharon, Sharon very clearly looking past Brenda and onto the counter.

"What's that?" Sharon asks, pointing to the cake with a slow, circling finger. Squints and adds uneasily, "and why do you have flour on your dress?"

"Brenda baked you a birthday cake," Rusty informs her. Makes a grand, flourishing gesture with that smug, Sharon-style grin on his face.

"Oh," Sharon says. Puts her hand over her chest and looks at Brenda with the fakest smile Brenda's seen outside of a beauty pageant. "Really? A birthday cake?"

Brenda stomps her foot. "You two," she chides. "You two will eat this pretty, perfect cake I made."

"Now?" Rusty gapes.

" _Now_ ," Brenda tells him. Pokes her short index finger into his chest.

"Honey," Sharon says, sounding torn. "It's not that I'm not grateful. . ."

"I know," Brenda whines. "I _know_. The lasagne last month and before that those pies-"

"And the Thanksgiving turkey that one year," Rusty supplies with a wince. Which hurts Brenda's feelings a little, but really Sharon should have known better than to say yes to that. Sharon is supposed to be the one who helps them avoid colossal mistakes. Doesn't Sharon know this?

And really, it's Sharon's own fault that she's so good and wonderful and perfect that Brenda tries to be better at the things she's always failed at. Entirely Sharon's own doing that Brenda loves her so much that she felt compelled to make her a birthday cake with her own two hands.

"Let's try it," Sharon says, sounding game. Maybe sounding like she's at work giving order about a crime scene, but still. Sounding determined.

Sharon and Rusty are the first ones to take a bite, and to their credit they keep it in their mouths a whole ten seconds. Which is about eight seconds longer than it takes Brenda to spit her own bite into the sink.

"Jesus," Brenda hisses. Takes a drink of water straight from the faucet.

"What _was_ that?" Rusty demands. Pulls the milk out of the fridge and drinks it right from the gallon.

"I don't _know_ ," Brenda shakes her head. Looks over to see Sharon dragging the milk away from Rusty and drinking from the plastic herself. "How could it look so pretty and taste so bad?"

"I can honestly say I don't know," Sharon says, looking horrified. Glances down at the gallon of milk and sees that she's left a red ring of lipstick around the top. Begins to furiously wipe at it with a towel.

Rusty unceremoniously dumps the rest of the cake into the trash. And it makes Brenda sad, but she recognizes it needs to be done.

"My very first homemade birthday cake," Brenda laments, looking down at her broken efforts.

"First and last," Sharon says, and takes her hand. Makes it sound like a desperate plea.

"Fine," Brenda sighs. "Fine." And she wants to work up a good pout about it, but Sharon is smiling at her now and Brenda just can't feel anything but happy. "Happy birthday," she says again, and presses her lips to Sharon's. Gives her a good and proper kiss this time.

Sharon's mouth tastes chalky from the milk, but even then she's Sharon. Tastes like windless, warm nights and smells like ginger. Always feels like home.

. . .

 


End file.
